


Perfect Match

by butyoumight



Series: Crossing Parallels [2]
Category: Green Day, The Beatles
Genre: AU, Crossing Parallels, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-26
Updated: 2005-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoumight/pseuds/butyoumight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Would it be wrong if I wanted this to last forever?”</i></p><p><i>“No, Jason.” George ran one hand down Jason’s back, sliding down to grip gently at his waist. “It would be right. Just right.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [borrowedphrases](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/gifts).



> An interlude in the Crossing Parallels universe, taking place between _Fact: Marijuana Induces Time Travel_ and _White Valentines_.

_George breathed deep of the distinctive smell, taking in a scent that was simultaneously foreign and familiar. Perhaps he had caught a whiff before in a dream, some sort of premonition. A hint from the hereafter about the future. The future of men as a whole, the future of George’s heart and soul._

 _The hands were wholly unfamiliar to begin with, though becoming more and more regular as time went on. More and more a perfect fit._

 _George curled around the familiar stranger, comfortable in how well their bodies fit together. Trailing fingertips across the smooth skin, pressing lips to the soft cheek, burying his face in the crook of the perfect neck, breathing in and out, matched to him in perfect unison._

 _He turned around in George’s arms, tilting his head up, one hand sneaking to tangle in the shaggy over grown mop-top. Lips met slowly, without need or hastiness. Only vaguely obvious enjoyment, utterly gentle love. Tongues moved against one another completely without hesitance. Comfortably right, they slipped apart at exactly the right moment, foreheads pressing together. A moment passed where they did nothing but share air. Everything fell into place, everything feeling just the way it always should have._

 _The voice was soft and soothing, perfectly pitched, each word etching itself irremovably into the forefront of George’s mind._

 _“Would it be wrong if I wanted this to last forever?”_

 _“No, Jason.” George ran one hand down Jason’s back, sliding down to grip gently at his waist. “It would be_ right _. Just right.”_

 _Their lips met again, without rush, without falter. Perfectly matched, meant to be. George almost whimpered, completely giving himself up into the familiar mouth._

+

“Jason.”

These hands were calloused, but in entirely different places, small bands of cold metal unique, different as they smoothed soothingly through hair, across cheeks, down arms.

“George?”

George rolled onto his side, away from Ringo’s insistent hands, reaching blindly to the bed-side table. The pack of cigarettes called to his hand, and he fumbled with the top for a moment before the ever-calm drummer took them from him.

Lighting two cigarettes with one match, Ringo dragged hard on one even as he placed the other between the guitarists thin fingers. George’s hands were shaking slightly. Even through his tightly closed eyes, beneath thick lashes, Ringo could see traces of tears threatening to spill over.

George brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long slow drag, allowing the smoke to ease out through his nose. Ringo chose to wait and let George break the silence, opting instead to take George’s shaking hand, running his thumb lightly across the knuckles.

George slipped his hand free, only to splay his own fingers across the back of Ringo’s hand, feeling at the metal bands and the stones set therein.

Even after nearly a week, there was still a slight dent on his pinkie where a ring, worn almost religiously for years, was missing. If the light had been any better, the tan line would be even more evident.

George gave a shaky sigh that ended in a short cough, or possibly a laugh, smoke swirling angrily into oblivion. The dented flesh, the band of pale skin stood as a clear reminder that it had been real. It had not been a dream.

“Do you miss him, Rich?” George finally asked, still fingering the distinct lack of ring.

Ringo left his cigarette between his lips, reaching his other hand over to brush the hair out of George’s eyes. George looked at him, steel blue meeting soft brown, the light sheen of sorrow matched in both pairs of eyes.

“Of course I do.”

“Would you say... Would you say you fell in love with him?”

Ringo heaved a heavy sigh. “I wouldn’t say that...” George’s eyes closed, hurt, before Ringo finished his thought. “But only because I can’t allow myself to feel so strongly. I wouldn’t be able to handle that. I have to pretend it didn’t matter as much as...” Ringo swallowed hard before continuing. “As much as it blatantly does.”

George’s eyes eased open, a single tear making its lonely way down his temple.

“I fuckin’ miss him, Richie. How can I fuckin’ miss him?”

Ringo placed one hand on George’s cheek, running his calloused thumb along George’s prominent cheek bone, even as the edge of his forefinger wiped away the lingering traces of salt. “You fell for him, George. And you fell hard.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of Ringo’s mouth. “You always do fall hard.”

George matched his very half-hearted smile. “That’s true. Different, though. John wasn’t from _the future_ , defying the laws of nature.”

Ringo gave a barking laugh. “He might as well have been. It‘s _John_.”

“You’re right.” George fell silent again, dragging at the tail end of his cigarette. Ringo took the spent filter from him and put both of the cigarettes out carefully in the ashtray.

George curled against the calming drummer, hands flexing against his sides. A less knowledgeable person would interpret the gripping as needy and insistent, but Ringo knew better. Wrapping his arms tightly around the guitarist, Ringo ran his hands soothingly down his back, whispering nothings into his hair as George buried his face against Ringo’s chest and once again allowed himself to let loose and cry.

+

 _Meanwhile, in the back yard of a small house in Oakland, California, almost forty years later, another drummer, similarly small of stature and with matching eyes of blue, comforted another distraught guitarist. Even as he stroked Jason’s hair and hushed gently, trying in vain to soothe the shaking, calm the tears, Tré Cool’s free hand clung to the heavy gold ring on a chain around his neck. He stared over Jason’s shoulder, up into the dark night sky, willing himself to be stronger._


End file.
